


Begonia

by skipnaught



Category: Death Note
Genre: Canon: Death Note, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skipnaught/pseuds/skipnaught
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are few things Mello has the ability to tolerate while he's ill. In fact, there are few things Mello has the ability to tolerate at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begonia

**Author's Note:**

> Ew, hiatus. Unfortunately I didn't have time to juggle school, work, the website I'm currently helping to run and AO3 all at once so... yeah. xD
> 
> Anyhow, here's some stuff that was born from procrastination on the latest History assignment and my grandma's kitchen. c; I'm also taking requests and whatnot, so feel free to hit me up!

_It’s October-the-something_ , Mello thinks upon awakening. Even though it’s still cold, it’s definitely not as cold as it was yesterday and he can safely assume that the hardwood floor isn’t, either. It’s certainly welcome considering he hasn’t showered – hell, he’s hardly _moved_ – in four days and he smells like shit.

His second conscious thought is that _Matt’s gone_ , as indicated by the lack of a body beside him, and when he rolls across he’s greeted by residual heat; he’s only just left. It’s comforting only in the moment before he remembers he’s rather ill – albeit not in the devastating way he had been a few days prior – which means he can’t _really_ go after Matt, and suddenly the still-slightly-chilly October-the-something doesn’t look so good after all.

Following an ever-attractive sucking back of mucus, Mello tumbles out of bed and – _ah_ , that floor isn’t cold and _fuck yes_ , he was correct – drags himself through the kitchen and into the small, mouldy cavern Matt lovingly labels the bathroom. He is, of course, greeted by the cracked mirror which weeps Milky Way wrappers and still-moist Hubba Bubba in the dim light and attempts to study his own reflection – of which is comprised of dark bags and pale flesh – before deciding to wage the never-ending war with the even smaller mouldy cavern Matt lovingly labels the shower. 

He barely has enough energy to get the water running, and all he can do is sigh when he finally does and the hot tap comes off in his hand before proceeding to kamikaze toward the filthy shower floor. It takes a lot to sap the ‘Mello’ out of Mello, but the sickness is sure doing a brilliant job. Nevertheless, it’s probably appropriate to be calling the plumber but he can’t be sure that he’ll reach the phone without dying.

Some twenty minutes and an epic struggle later, Mello’s stumbling back out of the bathroom – the idea of blow-drying his hair has, understandably, completely slipped his mind – and is highly considering returning to bed when he sees it.

“ _Matt_ -” he’s returned, how lovely. “-what is _this_ shit?”

His beloved cherry redhead stands front and center in the mess of electrical cords that is their living room, with this toothy grin and bright eyes behind ochre lenses and – _you’re kidding_ , Mello internally spits – a god-awful-looking _houseplant_.

“Flowers, Matt? _Flowers_?”

Mello kind of regrets that remark, if only just a little, because Matt’s smile wanes and he looks kind of hurt in the light of it. In his snotty, bed-ridden state, though, he can hardly tolerate his flatmate’s new possession. If anything, he doubts it’ll be staying for long.

“No, Mel,” Matt begins slowly, as though he’s explaining the difference between a turtle and a tortoise to a kindergarten child. “It’s a _flowering begonia_.”

“Same fucking thing! Get it outside, it stinks.”

The sickness can’t take the ‘Mello’ out of Mello, after all; this isn’t even his apartment.

“But _Mello_ -” and then there’s that pleading tone and those puppy-dog eyes that won him over the time he reluctantly paid for _The Wind Waker_ “-it’s a houseplant. I want to keep it _inside_.”

It’s happening again. There’s a shitty plant and a shitty disease and a soon-to-be-shitty Matt if he doesn’t agree and, hey, there’s that copy of _The Wind Waker_ on the floor over there–

“You’re lucky I love you. Just keep it the fuck away from the bedroom.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Matt’s long since shed his coat; working over the stove becomes progressively hotter and he has an inkling Mello might have put the floor heaters on as he’s definitely sweating more than he was last night, but he can’t be sure. He’s cooking the same insipid tomato soup again, and though he finally came to terms with the fact that his new begonia really did smell like crap – that guy who’d sold it to him _had_ been kind of shady – this stuff had to be worse.

“Mello!”

“… _Fucking_ what?! I’m trying to sleep!”

“I’m trying to cook! Do you want milk in this shit?”

He’s become quite skilled at their game of screaming through walls on an hourly basis–

“…Yeah.”

–nevermind that. Mello’s screamed himself hoarse. Again.

“Shut up, Mel, you’re gonna’ lose your voice.”

Matt can’t deny it – he really loves Mello. There aren’t many things in this world he wouldn’t do for him, even when it comes down to the crunch. He’d probably die for him. Matt knows, deep down, that Mello needs protection. Screw that, everyone who comes out of Whammy’s needs protection from _something_. Mello is – he decides, after having pondered it for five minutes – completely _retarted_. He blew himself the fuck up, and even though Matt’s still trying to nurse him back to health, he hasn’t grown tired. It’s whack, he knows, because anyone else would’ve disowned him the minute they minute they decided their best friend really had left them behind–

“Oh, shit.”

The milk’s burning and Mello’s mumbling about his plant again. It’d be nice if, say, they could debate the indoor status of the thing together or something but, as per usual, he’s not even there to defend it. It’s mildly frustrating, but he simply returns to the task of trying to save the painfully bland soup mainly because once he shoves it down his boyfriend’s throat he’ll shut the hell up but, hey, Mello’s as sick as a dog and he needs a feed. Soon enough, he’s bowled it up and is making his careful approach into the den of the devil.

“Hey,” He starts softly, moving slowly to sit at the end of the bed. “I cooked you some of that shitty soup again.”

“Mmm-” at least it’s some form of initial response. “-at least it smothers the scent of your stupid flowers.”

“ _Flowering begonia_ , Mello!”

“Yeah, yeah… gimme’ that soup.”

* * * ** * * * * *

Matt’s left his iPod on the bedside table, and though Mello’s vision is practically fucked at nine o’clock in the morning – that _is_ early – he can tell it’s November-the-something. It’s become a lot warmer since he got over the awful sickness that had him nailed to the bed for two weeks, and even though Matt’s not here again – which, he decides, is almost as weird as the morning he brought the begonia home – he has no problems.

Not until he steps out into the living room, anyway.

The stench is almost unbearable, and Mello really has to screw his nose up to stop himself from gagging. What’s irritating is that Matt’s basically hypnotised by the Wii again and isn’t bothered in the least by it. It takes him five seconds to locate the source of the vile aroma – that _fucking_ begonia – and eight to process the fact that it’s _black_.

“You didn’t water it! _Matt_ , you stupid fucking-”

“…Didn’t water what?”

Mello really, really hopes he can see the steam pouring out of his ears. He’s fucking _praying_ Matt can see that shit.

“ _Your stupid begonia!_ ”

He thinks he regrets _that_ notion even more than the one he made the day Matt first brought it inside, because now he’s grieving and – God help him – Mello’s going to have to be the one to pick up the pieces. He’s still pissed off, though; the thing’s goddamn _vulgar_.

“It’s… Mel, it’s dead!”

“No shit.”

The Nunchuk falls from Matt’s left hand as he rises from the sofa – of which, just for the hell of statistics, is ninety-percent gushing foam and ten-percent sticky food – and slowly approaches the rotting houseplant. As guilty as he feels for pointing it out, his expression is to _die_ for and Mello can’t hold back a giggle he made a poor attempt at stifling.

“Shut up,” Matt whines, before his expression contorts from one of pure horror to one of slight amusement laced with disappointment. Mello’s surprised, to say the least, and can’t help but smile when it gives way to sad laughter. “Well, I guess it is my fault. And it smells like fucking shit.”

Neither of them really know what to say in the silence that follows the actual acknowledgement of the begonia’s death – well, more like gradual decomposition; God only knows when that thing carked it – and kind of sit in vigil for it.

“Hey, Mel…”

It’s low. It’s hesitant. He’s hardly sure he’s talking to Mail Jeevas.

“Huh?”

“Can you get me a new one?” Oh no, not those _eyes_ again. “… _please_?”

Of _The Wind Waker_ and houseplants, there’s not many things on this Earth _Mello_ wouldn’t do for _Matt_. As screwed up as it is, their feelings are mutual and Matt did cook him up Homebrand soup for a fortnight and knew this would end in fond resignation and it’s killing him and _oh, fuck it_ –

“Jesus _Christ_ , Matt. You’re lucky I love you.”


End file.
